


Armor

by arrenkae



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suit Porn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mild D/s if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrenkae/pseuds/arrenkae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John assists Harold with the fine art of getting dressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armor

**Author's Note:**

> You know how in the movies, when the King is about to go into battle, there's that scene where he has people help him don his armor?
> 
> This is that scene, but with Finch and Reese.

The pain was tolerable on a good day. Today was not a good day. He could not even get up to reach the laptop. There was the blue flash of a message where his phone sat on the chair; a string of numbers. Finch sighed. He had taught it not to concern itself with him, but apparently that hadn't stuck. And there was yet another number to address. They never stopped coming. The world didn't wait.

Nightmares were another thing; usually he didn't let it get to him, they were mirages that could be brushed aside. But sometimes they were so vivid he could almost taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and woke with a ringing in his ears. Last week, it had almost become a reality again. Now his nightmares had new material to play with.

In the dream he could see the figure of John standing at the edge of the building, looking back at him with an expression he had never seen before or since. And he could see his own pale hands in front of him, reaching out, disembodied, to grasp at him. But his fingers were clumsy. The phone would slip, the buttons would move. Or worse, his fingers would pass through John, as if he himself were a mirage and John the only real, solid thing. And then the familiar flash of light and heat and the deafening silence.

He was never scared for himself in the dream; he was only a projection. He knew that whatever happened he didn't exist anyway. It was always John he worried for; always John he couldn't quite reach.

Often, it got muddled with his memories of the ferry. Places were oddly connected in dreams and locations merged and changed. Was it John who stared at him, or Nathan? Were they standing at the edge of a building, or a dark lake? Sometimes indistinct people moved around them like moths at the edges of a light.

The link between mind and body was an uncomfortable one and he awoke each morning with the old pain spiking new again. He half expected to be back in the hospital; that everything between the ferry and now was a dream. Some days were worse than others, but today was especially bad. He raised his head up to look at the phone, and then laid back down with a sigh, and closed his eyes.

* * *

  
The silence was maddening. It had been nothing but silence all this morning. He was used to putting the ear piece in as a matter of daily routine - get up, shower, go for a run, have breakfast, check in with Finch. Today there had been no call. He had had two cups of coffee, and another walk around the block. Sure, there were some days when there were no new numbers, but Finch always let him know, and there was always something else to do at the library. Guns to clean, perimeters to check, leads to investigate.

This silence reminded him of Root and the time Finch had gone missing. He'd never realized until then how accustomed he was to the voice in his ear. How accustomed he was to the safety of commands.

Five minutes passed, and Reese decided it was long enough. If Finch wouldn't check in with him, then he'd check in with Finch.

When he got to the library, it was empty. Computers with their screens black and quiet. Bear wandered in from the back room, tail wagging furiously. His water and food bowl were empty. John fed and watered him and gave him a scratch behind the ears.

"You haven't seen him either, huh?"  
Bear gave a mournful whine and licked his hand.

He tried to tamp down the worry that was rising in him. Finch was never late. Finch got up even earlier than John. He was always there first thing when John opened the library doors. He would walk in and hear the clack-clack-clack of fingers on keyboard. Finch would give a little half-turn in his seat to look at him - a mild "Good morning, John," - then back to typing. And John would put the cup of green tea down at a safe distance from the computer, because he knew how Finch got about water and electronics.

Time to retrace his steps.

He'd been following Finch for a while now. It was a game. Finch knew, and he knew he knew, and Finch permitted it.

Little details dropped as breadcrumbs for him to follow. He began to piece it together now; opening his mental file on everything he knew about the man. That he liked green tea, one sugar, from a very particular tea place. That he could sometimes be found at a certain diner eating eggs benedict (which was the best eggs benedict John had ever tasted, but he wasn't about to admit that to Finch.) That he used a tailor in Manhattan, and collected antique books (especially ones about ornithology).

Which were all very interesting details, and knowledge that John had savored. But right now they were pieces to three different puzzles that he didn't need. Time to go for a walk. He took Bear by the lead and left the library. One by one, he checked each location. The tailor was closed. The diner was bustling (but no Finch). And he couldn't be found anywhere near the antique book dealer or the tea place.

As it turned out, it was a memory that got him. It was a sense memory. He was struck dumb by it, standing in the middle of the street, while New Yorkers elbowed him in the ribs and told him to shove it.The smell of clean laundered linen and cheap hotel soap. He'd stayed in hotels before. He'd breathed it in as Finch had leaned towards him, pale and shaking, and tried to defuse the bomb. Finch had been terrified; John hadn't felt a thing. Thinking back on it now, he'd almost been happy. He'd expected to die for a while now and it was more than he deserved to die with a friend.

He could see the tiny gold cuff-links winking against the light as Finch's hands steadied. Initials - H.G.

Of course it wouldn't make sense for him to have a permanent residence. What was that he'd said once about migratory birds? Perhaps he had a few favourites. 

John returned to the library and turned on the computer. He searched hotels in New York. Narrowed it down with the initials H.G. Opened one of the old birdspotting books sitting on the desk, and went through, searching for Harold Gull, Grebe, Grouse. There were four different matches, spread across several different hotels, all within walking distance of the library.

The glare of sunset reflected off the glass and metal of the buildings. After the third shell identity, he found him. The hotels varied wildly. Some of them were middling places, some of them upscale with marble-tiled lobbies and doormen and penthouse suites. This hotel was down a back alley, with a peeling paint sign and broken neon.

It turned out to be a narrow brick building sandwiched between a pawn broker and a failing DVD store. He felt too tall for the lobby area, with its mildewed wallpaper and carpet worthy of an airport. The light flickered on/off in broken sputters. He talked to the teenager at the desk, who gave him the plastic room number and a key. He headed up two flights of stairs. Down a narrow hallway, carpeted in the same stuff stained with the passage of time. There was the faint smell of cigarettes.

He hesitated at the door. Would he find an empty room and another shell identity? Or worse? It didn't matter. Finch needed him. 

He knocked on the door and called out: "Finch?" No answer. He put the key in the lock, turned, pushed it open. If there had been anyone waiting they would have tried to shoot him by now.

The room was small and cramped. Ugly hotel curtains and furnishings. A dresser, a chair in one corner, and a door leading to an ensuite. There was a bed and a figure swaddled underneath the heap of blankets.

"Finch?" he repeated as he approached. There was a groan from the pile of blankets, and then: "Mr Reese, what are you doing here?"

Finch's voice sounded faint. As he got closer, he could see that the man was lying down, with the blankets drawn up to his chin and his face pale. From a distance he made a convincing corpse. He'd never seen Finch lying down. It was strange, too, to see him without his glasses. His face looked so different.

"I was looking for you," he replied. "You didn't call. What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Mr Reese," said Finch, struggling to sit up and failing. "The phone is over there and I'm here."

Reese propped some pillows behind him and helped him to sit up with a hand on Finch's back. He was wearing a cotton singlet. John could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric. He didn't seem feverish. Just pained.

"What happened?"

"My back, I'm afraid... I woke up like this. Ugh." He screwed his eyes shut against another wave of pain. "On most days it's tolerable. Today..."

He gritted his teeth. Finch tried his hardest to be quiet when he was in pain.

"How can I help?" asked John.

"We - we have another number, of course. It's on the phone."

"I asked how I can help _you_ , Finch. Where's your painkillers? Do you have medication?"

Finch almost seemed about to protest or berate John, but another wave of pain made him screw his eyes shut again.

"Ugh... Bathroom cabinet... Top drawer."

John retrieved the pills and a glass of water. He waited while Finch swallowed them. Then the man sighed and leaned back against the pillows. He looked pale and small.

"I'm sorry you had to see this, John... It should kick in soon, and I'll be fine."

John felt helpless and he hated it.

"Maybe I could help. Do you need anything? A hot water bottle? A massage?" John said without thinking. As soon as he'd said it, he regretted it. It hung in the air between them. He stood up and headed for the door.

"Don't worry about it. I'll just go and wait outside..."

"Mr Reese." There was something in Finch's tone that made John stop and turn back towards him. Finch was struggling to sit up from the pillows again. He fixed John with a look of steel, and said: "I am _not_  going to just sit here. It's time to get to work. As it happens, there's something you can help me with. My suit is in the wardrobe. Go and get it."

John felt all the heaviness leave him. The prickly discomfort of the room was gone. He knew what to do now. He crossed over to the wardrobe and opened it. There was a suit in its bag on the hanger. A pressed shirt hanging next to it. Beneath that, a pair of leather oxfords with a pair of socks neatly rolled up inside them. John took the shirt out first and laid it across the bed with the same reverent caution he'd handle a loaded weapon.

He helped Finch up out of bed. It was a slow process, leading him with one hand, the other against his back. Finch held his arms out and John pulled the shirt on, first one sleeve, then stepping around the side and pulling on the other. He had never seen Finch without his suit before. Standing there in singlet and plain boxer shorts with the shirt hanging unbuttoned around him. He looked pale and husked.

John reached out and began to do up the buttons, one by one, with a steady hand. He tried not to recall how Finch had opened his shirt to remove the bomb vest; how his hands had trembled.

One by one. Each button was smooth, mother-of-pearl, the fabric was the softest cotton he'd ever handled and draped like a dream. He buttoned the shirt all the way up. Finch raised his head and bared his neck slightly; accommodating, and John did the last two buttons at the neck.

Next were the sleeves. One by one he took the gold cufflinks where they were resting in their box on the dresser. Finch's hands felt soft in his own as he turned them over and clipped the sleeves together.

Finch slowly sat back down on the bed, gripping John's arm tightly. He still looked pained.

John knelt at his feet beside the bed. Even Finch's socks were high quality; made of fine wool with an argyle pattern knitted into them. He pulled them on. Then he took the pants which lay draped over the hanger. The fabric was conservative brown and a soft wool-cotton blend. By itself, nothing ordinary, but up close the true quality of the manufacturing came into view. The stitching was so neat as to be invisible. He slowly pulled them up, first one leg, then the other. Finch rested a hand on John's shoulder to steady himself as he stood. John tried not to move. He wanted to stay stable and grounded; something for Finch to lean on.

John tucked the shirt in and smoothed out the wrinkles. He pulled up the zipper and buttoned it, and then slid the soft leather of the belt through the loops and focused on doing up the clasp. He could feel Finch watching him as he did so. John wanted for it to be right. He knew Finch was particular about things.

He looked up at Finch after he was done. He gave the slightest of nods and John felt relieved. 

Next there was the tie to deal with. John got to his feet and turned his attention to the task. It was Kara who originally taught him some of the more formal styles of knots, but he was glad now to tie it for Finch. The silk slid over his fingers. He put all his focus on getting the knot just so; aware of Finch's eyes on him the entire time. He gave it one last gentle pull before letting it go.

Finally, there was the vest. Finch held an arm out in expectation, and John slowly slid the vest up onto his shoulders. It lay there like a mantle. It was exquisite - tailor-made of course, and it fit him like a glove. He did the buttons up, one by one, and then stepped away. At last, standing there was the Finch he was most familiar with.

"Mr Reese," said Finch. "You're forgetting something."

He looked down and realized that Finch was still in his socks. Reese almost blushed at the mistake. He knelt at once and took the polished oxfords in hand and carefully fit them. He slid in each foot, and tied double knots on each so they couldn't possibly unravel. He had finished the last knot when there was the brief touch of a hand on his face.

John dared to look up. Finch seemed different now. And he knew it couldn't be the painkillers taking effect; that wouldn't be for another fifteen minutes at least. Surely he must still be in agony, and John could help with that, if only Finch would accept his offer of help. But John knew he wouldn't do that. Instead, Finch put on a suit. He covered himself in layers of cotton and wool and silk, and seemed to stand a little straighter.

John admired that about him.

"Thank you John," said Finch. He slid on his glasses. "It's time to get to work. The numbers don't stop coming."

John rose smoothly to his feet and ran a hand over the cool metal of the handgun in its leather holster. As much a force of habit as Finch's suits.

"All right, Finch, lead the way." And he followed him out the door. They left the hotel room for the city streets. If John was being honest, he'd follow him anywhere.


End file.
